


I Give-a You Half Off the Lovemaking

by ink_drunk



Category: Superstore (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29367636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink_drunk/pseuds/ink_drunk
Summary: “Are you asking to motorboat me?” Amy says without thinking. Thankfully, Jonah laughs.“No. Well, I mean...” He trails off, then lets a hand drift down, plucking at one of her belt loops. “That's not what I would call it,” he says almost shyly, and Amy's whole body ignites with understanding.In which Jonah owes Amy one. Set immediately post-"Town Hall".
Relationships: Amy Dubanowski/Jonah Simms
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	1. Get Down

**Author's Note:**

> Did I start writing this on Valentine's Day? Who's to say. Please enjoy the first present-tense fic I've written in literal years! (Chapter titles from "Stand Up" by The Revivalists, for obvious reasons.)

When they emerge from the Photo Lab, it’s Garrett who clocks them first, rolling over at breakneck speed to cut them off by the door. His eyes are lit up in that chaos-loving way Amy instantly recognizes, and in that moment, she knows that he knows. Somehow, goddamn it, he already knows.

“Hey, guys. Y'all have fun in there? Because,” Garrett plows ahead as Amy starts to reply, “ _I_ always thought it’d be fun to make a sex tape. Kim K just made it look so accessible, you know?”

Amy’s voice sputters and dies in her throat. Like an idiot, she glances at Jonah. There’s red burning high in his cheeks and she can see, with gut-twisting panic, that he’s missed a button on his shirt. The panic turns to resignation when he opens his mouth.

“We weren’t making a sex tape.” His voice sounds like it's reached a whole new register. It's a feat Amy had thought impossible until today.

“Oh, my sweet summer children,” Garrett croons. “You absolutely were. Though unlike Kim and Ray J, I’m guessing you had no idea. And also that you weren’t on ecstasy —” He stops himself, arching a brow. “Wait, were you? If you were, by all means, hook a brother up.”

The realization hits Amy like a delivery truck: that camera in the flower stand. They’d been putting away the town hall decorations just before… well, before Jonah had grabbed her face and kissed her like he’d been waiting his entire life to do it, and she’d pushed him up against the weird little counter by the industrial copier and they'd quickly started taking off their clothes.

 _Too quickly,_ Amy thinks with despair. Why in God's name hadn't they double-checked that camera?

Jonah looks like he's about to throw up or pass out or both. Garrett's on some tangent about how his old dealer went to work at a high-end dispensary and they're no longer friends. “To be fair, I could've kept buying weed from him. But he's been such a dick about having health insurance, it's more like the principle of the thing at this point.”

His face goes all chaotic-evil-schadenfreude again. “ _Speaking_ of dicks,” he says, turning to Jonah. “Dude, why'd did you take off your pants and boxers but not the shirt? Amy got a Winnie-the-Pooh fetish I don't know about?”

Maybe, Amy decides as Jonah babbles something about chafing and airflow, this isn't so bad. Garrett might mock them until the end of eternity, but at least he's a friend; she's pretty sure he won't tell anyone. Better he'd seen them than Glenn or Dina or, God forbid, Kelly.

Just as she's starting to feel a trace of relief, there's a crashing sound a few aisles up. Cheyenne and Mateo are speed-walking toward them, having shoved aside several carts — and customers — to clear the way. The dramatics aren't unusual, but the looks on their faces are.

“Wait,” Amy says, interrupting Garrett's spiel. “How many other people saw... what we were doing?” She gestures between her and Jonah, whose expression of horror has somehow intensified. It's almost cute, like he's doing an over-the-top impression of someone — maybe Dina when she has to talk to Sandra. At any other moment, it might have made Amy laugh.

“Oh, just a couple...” Garrett says casually. And that's when Glenn rounds the corner of Aisle 7, looking more miserable than Amy's ever seen him — worse than the day he got fired, even, or the day they found that dead guy in the store. Garrett catches her expression and smiles.

“Hundred thousand,” he finishes, shrugging. “Give or take a few.”

***

After an excruciating hour of lawyers arguing over each other and Glenn cycling through various modes of hysteria, it's decided that Amy and Jonah will be suspended without pay for three months.

“This would have been a fireable offense,” says one of the higher-ups, sounding weary, “but it seems no one recorded the full livestream, even though we really hoped people would. So there's no official record of the, ah...” Though the man is restricted to Glenn's speakerphone, Amy can practically see him waving an uncomfortable hand, seeking just the right euphemism for _porn._ “Incident,” he tries. “Basically, you two got lucky.” 

“Lucky ducks!” Glenn bleats, tears shining on his cheeks. Amy smiles weakly. Jonah is fidgeting so much in his chair, it's like he's on fast-forward.

“And Glenn?” someone else chimes in. “Let's try and avoid any more... incidents, shall we?”

“You bet your sweet potatoes we will!” Glenn says much too loudly into the speakerphone, a man on the verge of total meltdown.

Several people voice their appreciation for this sentiment and then finally, _finally_ , they're all saying goodbye and Amy and Jonah are stumbling into the hall, blinking like deer in headlights. Before the door shuts behind them, Amy gets a glimpse of Glenn laying his head on his desk. He has the air of someone who won't be getting up again for a very long time.

“Poor guy,” Jonah says in her ear, startling her. “You think he's ever seen sex on TV before?”

“Actually,” Amy says, ignoring the thrill that zips down her spine, “I know for a fact he has, because one time _Titanic_ came on in the break room and he unplugged the TV so fast, I thought he was gonna get rope burn.”

Jonah makes a small sound of amicable disagreement. “ _Titanic_ doesn't count. All you see is that hand on the window.”

“Yeah, you're right. Far cry from a company-wide livestream of your bare ass.”

She thinks he’ll blush again at that — or maybe she just wants him to. But he only smiles that pretty-boy smile, so collected all of a sudden, leaning loose and easy against the wall.

“Since when do we get cable in the break room?” is all he says. “Story doesn't check out, Sosa.”

“Well, it was before you came, so.”

The silence between them stretches; Amy's eyes flick down, averting. She hadn't noticed when she was tearing it off, but Jonah's shirt is a nice shade of... navy? Plum? He could probably tell her exactly, but now doesn't seem like the time to ask.

The hickey near his collar is an alarmingly similar shade. Almost unconsciously, Amy reaches out, grazing it with a fingertip. She thinks she means to say sorry for biting.

Instead, her hand curls around the back of his neck and she's pulling his face down to hers, and then they're making out right there in the hallway and _Jesus,_ Jonah's mouth is so soft. How could she have wasted so much time not kissing him? How could she have forgotten, after the tornado, what it was like to have Jonah's hands in her hair, his teeth at her lower lip, his whole body warm and solid and _wanting_ against hers —

“Amy,” he groans softly, close enough to feel. The way he says it sounds like a warning, so she pulls back, breathing hard. He's definitely flushed now, pink all over. She should not have reapplied her lip stain during that conference call.

“Um. I was just thinking,” Jonah says hoarsely, running a hand through his hair, “maybe we’d better not do this here?”

“Maybe not,” Amy agrees, her own voice surprisingly steady. “Given our track record and all.”

“Yeah. I mean, first with the security cam footage, now this. Next thing you know, we'll be having anal on CNN.”

Amy cocks a brow at him. “Anal will be the _next thing_ I know?”

“Oh God, no! No no no,” Jonah stammers, gesticulating wildly. “We're, all I meant was — I mean, _I_ don't even like that, you can ask anyone —”

“I can ask _anyone_?”

“Not anyone!” Jonah nearly shouts. With Herculean effort, Amy manages to keep a straight face. “I was just saying — oh my God, come _on_ , Amy.” He looks at her with huge, pleading eyes. “You know what I mean.”

She decides to put him out of his misery. “Yeah, I know.” She steps closer again, right into the space framed by his body, like when she kissed him in the warehouse the other day. “I just like getting you all worked up.”

Jonah relaxes a fraction, eyes falling closed. Amy smiles and threads her fingers through his.

“All right, neurotic little panda boy. You coming home with me or what?”

***

Emma's staying with Adam this weekend, which is both a miracle and a small, needling source of anxiety that Amy can't quite parse until she's unlocking her door. It's only then that she realizes, with Emma gone, she has no excuse to kick Jonah out. If whatever's about to happen doesn't go well, it's going to be awkward and inescapable and — Amy gives her head a firm shake, shoving away the thought.

 _You just had public sex and got suspended from work,_ she reminds herself, stepping over the threshold. _Things can hardly go downhill from here._

“Ahh,” Jonah says as he follows her inside, both of them taking off their shoes. It's funny how she can hear the accent in just one syllable. “This your tiny apartamento? You are a-spoiled, signorina! You have-a room for one thousand goats.”

“Oh, I put-a the goats outside today, otherwise they interrupt the lovemaking,” Amy replies, and wants to swallow her tongue when she sees Jonah's wide-eyed expression. “I mean,” she says quickly, reverting to her normal voice, “not that we have to...”

“Make love?” Jonah fills in, and winces. “Wow, that feels stupid to say unironically.”

“Pretty stupid to hear, too,” she ribs him, moving to hang up her coat and purse.

“Hey, come on. That's... not nice.” His voice is so earnest all of a sudden, and Amy's stomach does an odd little flip. He touches the crook of her arm, turning her to face him again, his hazel-green eyes and dark hair that's still mussed from earlier.

“I don't know if you've noticed, Jonah, but I am not-nice to you on a regular basis.”

“I have noticed that, actually,” he murmurs, and it's like he can't help closing the space between them, putting his hands on either side of her face. The pads of his thumbs just barely graze her cheeks. Faintly, Amy thinks she might be getting a fever.

“For some reason, though,” Jonah says now, quiet and intense, “it only makes me like you more.”

“You,” she starts to say, “are a glutton for punishm—” He cuts her off with a burning, open-mouthed kiss, and Amy's mind goes magnificently blank. She's not thinking about her next snipe or fake Italian accents or the sex tape they accidentally made today. It's all just _Jonah_ , his tongue in her mouth and fingers working into her hair, his grip tightening like he's holding on for dear life.

Her own hands make their way under his coat, pushing it off his shoulders as she walks him back into the ledge by the door. Amy can feel herself getting messier, greedier, asking for more with each kiss. She takes her teeth to his neck again and he moans, not quietly; she's about to tell him to shut up when she realizes, with an embarrassingly overdue thrill, that this is the first time they've kissed outside the store. For once, there is no one around who could possibly hear them.

It turns her on a lot more than it should. “Hey,” she whispers into his ear. “We are _alone._ ”

“God, I hope so,” he whispers back, eyelids fluttering. And right there, that's what does it: she can't resist Jonah actually _swooning_ for her. Screw “not that we have to,” they are definitely doing this again, like, right now — twice in three hours, like a couple of teenagers. Amy would blame it on pregnancy hormones, but she knows they're hardly at fault here.

She looks at the real culprit and fists a hand in his shirt, still misbuttoned, to drag him over to the couch. Jonah moves like he's in a trance, all too willingly. She pushes him down and unbuttons her own shirt. Before she can climb on top, though, Jonah splays a hand on her thigh to stop her.

“What?” Amy says, annoyed.

His eyes travel up and down her body. The room is dim, it's evening now and they haven't turned on any lights, but Amy feels suddenly, deeply self-conscious. Oh God, is he trying to keep her from sitting on his lap? She _is_ four months pregnant, she supposes, but it's not like she's a whale. Or is she a whale and she just doesn't know it?

“Sorry,” Jonah is saying, which sounds an awful lot like he's changed his mind. Humiliation floods through her before he continues: “I just wanted to, like, look at you.”

“Oh,” Amy breathes, recovering. “Um, okay. Can you even see me?”

Jonah laughs a little. “Not really, now that you mention it.”

She switches on a lamp in the corner of the room. “Better?”

His eyes are liquid gold in the lamplight, and his skin looks just as limned when he pulls her down by the wrist. “Yeah,” he whispers, “lot better,” and then he's got his warm palm behind her neck and is kissing her again. Amy leans into him, anxious to regain their momentum.

She reaches for the buttons on his shirt and he lets her — it comes off faster this time, her fingers nimble and practiced, followed easily by the T-shirt underneath. They're both shirtless now and Jonah slides one of his hands up her body, cupping her over her bra. Instinctively, Amy reaches back to unhook it, then moves his hand right back where it was. Jonah gasps raggedly into her mouth.

“Yeah,” Amy tells him, and brings his other hand up.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he answers, gently massaging her nipple with his thumb. A whimper rises in Amy's throat before she can stop it. “Why does this feel so much dirtier than actual sex?”

“I mean,” she says a little breathlessly, trying to seem nonchalant, “you've never seen my boobs before? We're in uncharted territory here.”

Jonah stops rubbing and bites his lip, like he's chewing on that. After seconds that feel like minutes, he says: “Hey, Ames, can I try something?”

“Are you asking to motorboat me?” Amy says without thinking. Thankfully, Jonah laughs.

“No. Well, I mean...” He trails off, then lets a hand drift down, plucking at one of her belt loops. “That's not what I would call it,” he says almost shyly, and Amy's whole body ignites with understanding.

“Ohmygod, _no,_ ” she says, all in a rush. Jonah looks immediately, nakedly hurt, so she amends: “Not that I don't, like, want you to. But it's just,” she keeps going, when his expression doesn't really change, “It's not very... organized, down there, right now. Plus I'm pregnant, so it might, like...” She can't quite make herself say the phrase _taste weird._ “I don't know,” she finishes lamely. “I don't think it would be very nice for you.”

Jonah's face softens. “Okay,” he says. “Whatever you want. Seriously. But...”

And now he leans in very close, one hand still at her breast and the other at her hip, his breath so warm on the shell of her ear. “I've seen you already,” he murmurs. “And I _really_ want to. So if you're only saying no for my sake...” 

Any comments Amy would normally make about performative feminism or fake-woke sex positivity fly right out the window at the tone of his voice. It sounds like he's ready to eat her alive.

“...trust me, I would do _anything_ for it,” Jonah is saying, and before she can think too hard about this, Amy slams her mouth against his and starts undoing the button and zip on her jeans.

“I am choosing to believe you,” she says, fumbling her pants all the way off. Jonah groans helplessly, then breaks away from the kiss and slips to his knees on the hardwood.

For a moment he just sits very still, hands braced on her bare thighs, eyes closed like he's praying. God, he looks so _good_ down there, his concentrated face and muscled stomach, backlit just enough so she can see. She realizes then how hard he is through his pants, but only has a split second to feel bad about it before Jonah leans in and mouths her, warm and wet and eager, over her underwear.

“Oh,” Amy gasps, in a voice that sounds nothing like her own.

Jonah, uncharacteristically, doesn't say anything, only nudges her legs farther apart and hooks a finger into the waistband of her panties. He looks up, mouth still pressed to her, and the pure, open desire on his face takes her breath away. He's still not moving, though, and Amy feels a flash of annoyance that he's chosen this moment to tease her before she realizes he's waiting for permission.

“Yeah,” she whispers, nodding too fast, “go ahead,” and Jonah springs into action. A moment later there's nothing between them and oh, holy _God._ Amy knew she liked his mouth, but now she wonders if it might actually kill her.

As if on cue, Jonah spreads her wider and licks tentatively, just once. The sensation shoots through her, electric and overpowering, and her thighs close swiftly, embarrassingly around his face.

“Oh shit,” Jonah says, sounding slightly panicked. His voice is muffled by her skin. “Is that — are you okay?”

“Yes,” Amy says quickly, feeling herself blush. “I haven't, uh...” _Had anyone go down on me in well over a year, and somehow forgot that it feels like doing ecstasy with your clit?_ “I'm sensitive, I guess,” she says, her voice high and self-conscious. Jonah nods, thumbing small, reassuring circles on the insides of her thighs. Amy feels herself relax into his touch.

“I can go slow,” he promises, his voice low and serious. “Just... tell me if you want me to stop.”

He pauses, considering. “Or you can kick me, if that's easier.”

Amy laughs weakly, then leans her head back and closes her eyes. Maybe it'll be less intense if she's not actually looking straight at him, her subordinate-slash-work-husband-slash-best-friend-slash-sex-buddy. Who just happens to be the second person to go down on her, ever.

Jonah moves his tongue back now, light as a feather; it still takes every ounce of Amy's self-control not to clench again. He's true to his word, though, slow and careful, barely glancing over her clit, fingers tracing gentle patterns on her thighs.

Amy slides down the couch to give him more access. She thought she'd have to work harder _not_ to think, but it's surprisingly easy, almost intuitive, to let him do this. When he starts licking harder, she hears herself swear.

“Oh God,” Jonah says quietly, like he feels it too. He seizes one of her hands, moves it into his hair. “Show me, Ames. Show me how you want it.”

She takes the opportunity to pull his head back — he's actually going too hard for her now. His whole body calibrates instantly, responding to hers. One of his hands leaves her thigh, and Amy makes the mistake of letting her eyes flutter open just as Jonah — his gorgeous mouth still on her clit, his eyes huge and dark and watching her intently — slips two fingers inside her and crooks them up.

“Fuck! Oh fuck, oh my _God_ , okay,” Amy moans, utterly involuntarily. Her hips have bucked so hard that she's slid another couple inches down the couch and is staring at the ceiling. Which is probably better anyway, all things considered.

“Jesus. Okay,” she repeats, a little calmer. She fists one hand properly in Jonah's hair and gropes the fabric of the couch with the other, trying desperately to settle herself.

“Sorry, to be clear,” Jonah says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice, now that he knows he has her. “Did you want me to do that again?”

Amy nods at the ceiling, too stunned to even mock him for that stupid snarky tone. “I'm gonna need verbal confirmation,” he goes on, which is bad enough, but the worst part is he's actually stopped moving.

“Please shut the fuck up,” Amy manages. Apparently that counts, because he adds another finger and starts pumping, slow and rhythmic, while his tongue laps steadily at her clit.

Amy squeezes her eyes shut, does her best to control her breathing. She's more than halfway off the couch now, but one of Jonah's arms is still curled solidly around her, holding her in place. He's surprisingly strong, Amy thinks jaggedly, for someone so skinny. Somehow, without her knowledge or approval, both her hands have found their way into his hair.

“Just like that, yeah,” she hears. It takes a long moment to realize the words haven't come from her, but from Jonah. “Show me,” he's murmuring. “Anything you want, Amy, please.”

“Oh my God,” she says. It's that raw tone again, the one she hardly recognizes as her own. _“Jonah.”_

It's building now, that flickery warmth in her lower abdomen that feels like magic, that feeling she hasn't gotten with someone else for so, so impossibly long. Suddenly Amy's terrified she's going to lose it — so instead of reeling Jonah back, she tugs him closer, nails digging into his scalp with the force of it.

He's flicking his tongue lightly, thrusting harder with his fingers. Amy whines and tosses her head against the couch cushions. The sensation is almost too much to bear.

“Fuck,” she lets herself swear again, and Jonah moans openly at that, warm vibrations climbing into Amy's stomach, pooling _just there_. She has to be careful now — she's almost too close, doesn't want it to overtake her accidentally.

Jonah, thank God, seems attuned to her every breath, pulling back just when she wants him to, moving in again after a moment. He's a quick study, she thinks in a daze. It actually reminds her of his first days on the job, how eager he was to learn, how hair-pullingly cute it was even at his most annoying. How he was always asking her to show him how to do everything.

 _Show me, Ames._ Oh, God.

And that's when Amy looks at him full-on, because — like always — she's the one in charge here, and she knows what she's doing. She's still not sure whether it's the surge of memories or those perfect cheekbones or three of Jonah's fingers, knuckle-deep inside her, that hit the hardest.

In the end, it doesn't matter: Amy shatters beneath him, his name loud and unabashed on her lips.

She's pretty far gone, but she thinks Jonah might be saying her name too, whispering to her as the tremors subside, pulling his fingers gently out of her. He's still got an arm wrapped around her thigh, but releases it when she goes to sit up — which Amy does slowly, probably comically so. It feels like she might black out if she does anything too fast right now.

Jonah, still on the floor, moves to lay his messy dark head in her lap. When their eyes meet, he smiles dreamily, like he's the one coming down from the high.

“Why are you _so_ lame,” are the first words out of Amy's mouth. Even to her ears, they don't hold water. Jonah laughs.

“You're mispronouncing _thank you_ ,” he tells her, and hauls himself up beside her again. “Though for the record, I also take gift baskets. Whatever's most convenient for you.” Amy rolls her eyes, but she can't seem to stop smiling.

Then she realizes, with a tingly jolt, that Jonah's casual tone is barely masking something else. She looks down and sees he's just as hard as before, if not harder. “Hey,” she says, reaching for him. “I can think of another way to thank you.”

But Jonah catches her hand and presses a kiss to her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. “I'm good, seriously,” he tells her. “You don't have to.”

“I _want_ to,” she says, frustration bubbling up when he blocks her other hand too. “Jonah, c'mon. You're clearly...” She gestures loosely at his crotch. “How is that fair?”

He looks at her with a dubious expression, like she's missing something obvious and he doesn't want to insult her by explaining it.

“I... already got one. Earlier,” he says delicately, at last.

Amy snorts. “Yeah, I caught that, funnily enough,” she says, trying to sound blasé, even as her heart flutters from remembering. “It's not often a guy comes inside me on the Photo Lab table, with thousands of strangers spectating around the globe.”

Jonah flushes tomato-red, starts to stammer something about toxic heteronormativity. Amy just keeps talking over him. “I mean, what are we, keeping some kind of orgasm tally? Nothing hotter than sex math, Jonah.”

“We're not keeping a _tally,_ I just didn't want to... skimp you?” He winces as it comes out of his mouth, like he knows it's a weirdly transactional thing to say. “But I mean,” he tries again. “I also definitely wanted to do that. I've been... wanting to.”

Jonah looks down at his hands, which are red as his face, before glancing back up at her. “And for the record,” he continues, those wide eyes trained on hers, his voice dipping into the lower register that gives Amy an unbidden thrill, “I like getting you all worked up, too.”

Just like that, every last sliver of irritation dissolves. Amy shifts closer to him on the couch. She's suddenly very conscious of how naked she is, and how she might use it to her advantage.

“You know, Jonah,” she says. She reaches down to touch him, sure and confident, just below the belt. Jonah, for all his protesting, gasps and shudders slightly, fragile as wet paper.

And so with him in the palm of her hand, Amy murmurs: “I think I have the solution to our problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I was thinking this was gonna be a oneshot, like I've never even met myself. Part two, from Jonah's perspective, is up now!


	2. Stand Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He thinks she'll ask what's wrong with him, or something to that effect. Instead she says: “Don't you wanna hear my plan?”_
> 
> _“What?” he says, caught off guard._
> 
> _“My plan,” Amy says easily, “to get you laid twice in one day.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took ages to update! But seems fitting to post in honor of Amy coming back for the finale. Hope you enjoy 😊

There are a few key things on which Jonah prides himself. These include: buying local, organic produce. Staying up-to-date on Israel/Palestine. Rinsing out his recycling so it'll actually get recycled, which he knows for a fact no one else at Cloud 9 does — and about which they do _not_ like to be reminded (he learned that one the hard way). And another thing just happens to be making other people come.

Not that he thinks he's Casanova or anything; sometimes it takes a long time, very occasionally it doesn't take at all. But in ninety-nine percent of encounters, Jonah makes sure it does, and until today he's _never_ gone ahead and, ah, crossed the finish line without the other person. Which is why he's so relieved to settle up with Amy now, and why he's perfectly content to let things lie. As it were.

Then she wraps her hand around his dick and, distressingly, every last one of his carefully constructed objections comes crashing down.

“Amy,” he gulps at her. She's just so incredibly naked, stroking him through his pants in a way that feels more obscene than a real hand job. “Ames. You really, really don't have to.”

“Didn't you hear me?” she purrs, low and sultry, and increases the pressure ever so slightly. Jonah swallows hard, feeling like a cartoon character with a too-big Adam's apple. “I've got it all figured out,” she continues. “Don't worry.”

Stupidly, he replies: “If telling me not to worry actually did anything, I could save a whole lot on Xanax.”

“You're on Xanax?” Amy says with mild interest.

“Yes. Well, kind of. It's four hundred dollars a bottle without insurance, so I don't take them every day. Just, you know, when I feel like it's going to be a bad shift or I don't get enough sleep the night before —” He's babbling now, unable to stop himself, and it's a relief on every single level when Amy covers his mouth with hers.

“You talk,” she says between heated kisses, clapping his face in her hands, “ _so fucking much_.”

“I know,” Jonah says scratchily. His own hands twitch at his sides; he wants to touch her so badly. But if he does he'll just pull her on top of him, he'll feel how warm and smooth her skin is and how relaxed all her muscles are now, and then they won't be even anymore.

Amy seems to sense the internal battle he's waging and sits back on folded legs, raising a brow. The expression is so familiar — a perfect split of amusement and genuine annoyance — that he almost laughs. _Jonah face_ , he flatters himself thinking. _A face designed especially for me._

He thinks she'll ask what's wrong with him, or something to that effect. Instead she says: “Don't you wanna hear my plan?”

“What?” he says, caught off guard.

“My plan,” Amy says easily, “to get you laid twice in one day.” Jonah opens his mouth to respond. Amy just keeps going. “Here's the thing. If you're so concerned about _e-qual-it-y —_ ” she emphasizes each syllable, like she's teaching him the word, “— we can still _do_ this, you're just gonna have to try a little harder.”

“Try harder to...?”

“Make me come, obviously,” she says, still flippant, but her voice goes quiet in a way that makes Jonah's heart lurch into his throat. He swallows again, eyes falling closed.

“I mean, when you put it that way —” he starts to say, and Amy wastes no time leaning in to kiss him again, her mouth hot and open, one hand pressed into the center of his chest.  The other starts quickly undoing his belt.

“Oh my God,” he says when she whips it off. His eyes flicker open to see her grinning wickedly, tugging at his pockets. Then his pants are around his ankles and he's just in his blue plaid boxers — a mercifully non-embarrassing choice for today, though that didn't stop her from making fun of him earlier (“Do you always have to be in contact with something plaid? Is it like a compulsion for you as a white person?”).

This train of thought derails as Amy swings a leg over him and sinks into his lap, and Jonah moans without meaning to. Even through his boxers, he can feel how ungodly wet she is. And yeah, some of it's his saliva, but he can't help feeling a tiny bit proud.

Apparently Amy can read his mind, because she rears back from kissing to give him That Look again.

“What?” he asks.

Her eyes flash upward, a rapid-fire roll. “Stop being so cocky.”

“I didn't even say anything!”

“I could feel you smiling,” she says, and — to his dismay — shimmies off him to stand up. She places both hands on her hips, seeming to consider something, and  Jonah suddenly doesn't mind this moment of space. He could admire her from any angle, like an Impressionist painting. (Or maybe some other kind of painting. His brain isn't doing its best work right now.)

“All right,” Amy says decisively. “I know what we gotta do.” And with that, she turns on her heel and marches into the hall. 

Jonah stands, promptly trips over his pants, then kicks them away and goes after her.  She's already disappearing into what he thinks is the bedroom, a suspicion confirmed when he follows her in: the only light is from the lamp in the other room, but that's definitely a bed, and that's definitely Amy settled against the headboard, legs crossed with the covers pushed back. Jonah practically dives to get there.

“Hey,” she says softly as he reaches her, in a way he suspects she wouldn't if it weren't so dark in here. She pulls him in for a long, slow kiss, and Jonah goes instinctively for her hair — though he could touch her anywhere by now, he supposes. But God, he's waited so long just for this, he doesn't need anything else. Besides, if experience tells him anything, Amy's about to provide her own instructions.

“So listen,” she murmurs after a minute, sure enough. “Missionary, historically, doesn't really do it for me.”

“Oh.” Jonah's grateful that she probably can't see his eyes popping out of his skull. “Um, okay.”

“And the whole pregnancy thing makes it even harder.”

“Okay, so do you mean like —”

“We're gonna have to work a different angle.”

It takes Jonah a second to realize she's not speaking metaphorically, and it knocks the wind clean out of him.

“What did you have in mind?” he manages finally, his voice notching a little higher than he'd like.

Amy doesn't answer, only nips at his neck and tugs at his boxers. Jonah pushes them off so fast that she laughs. He wonders vaguely if he should be embarrassed by that, but then Amy's shifting beside him, dropping lower to the mattress, and — oh, Jesus — turning so that she's on all fours. Jonah tries and fails to stifle a hungry sound low in his throat. Amy laughs again.

“Can you, like, handle this?” she teases, tilting her head at him. But the next second she's taking in a sharp breath as Jonah kneels behind her, lining them up so he's pressing right where she wants. He's been hard almost since they walked through the door, and it's truly, nearly impossible not to keep going. But he knows he needs to take a beat if he's actually going to last.

So instead of rolling his hips forward, he sets his hands on either side of Amy's, skimming his thumbs over her ass. He leans in, brushing his lips over her upper spine, her shoulders. Trails kisses to the column of her neck. Every part of her is so soft, like velvet.

“I can handle this,” he whispers, as much to himself as to her.

“I hope so,” Amy says back, quiet and breathy — and somehow, Jonah knows that neither of them is talking about just sex. But he can't think about that right now, can't get himself all tangled up in implications like always. Now is not a time for thinking.

To that end, Jonah straightens slightly, draws in a deep breath. Moves one hand to Amy's waist for balance. And finally presses himself inside.

She's reacting before he's even really done anything, gasping as she goes down on her elbows. “Oh my God,” she breathes, arching her hips up, and that is almost too much for him right there.

“Yeah, me too,” Jonah chokes out. He presses further, all the way in, and nearly bites through his lower lip.  This pregnancy sex is no fucking joke — Jonah's pretty sure, in retrospect, that going bareback was at least partially responsible for what happened before.

His mind can't help running the odds. On one hand: he knows what to expect now, and he can't see her face (which was also a big part of what happened). On the other: he has _literally_ dreamt about doing this before. It was only a week ago that he awoke in a confusing cocktail of arousal and shame, Kelly asleep beside him, and realized that five minutes of teaching Amy to golf had done irreparable damage to his subconscious.

So. Upon reflection, the cards might be stacked against him pretty bad. But Jonah's never shied away from a gamble — and this is no game of luck, but of skill. He can handle it, he can. Just like he promised her.

With that, he pulls all the way out, then plunges back in, not letting himself dwell on how Amy contracts around him or whimpers into the mattress. He wants more than anything to watch her, too, all her lines and curves so lovely even in shadow, but instead he fixes his eyes on the wall and tries to set a steady pace.

Amy is not making things easy. She talked all through the Photo Lab sex, offering pointers and the occasional sarcastic comment. Now, though, she seems to have lost the power of regular speech, and everything out of her mouth is a throaty _"fuck"_ or a filthy-sounding moan.

(Later, Jonah will try to unpack why it's so hot to him to have her, incoherent, on her hands and knees — he, who considers himself a model feminist. He will conclude that even model feminists are only human, and any human in the presence of a naked Amy Sosa would find it equally difficult not to lose their mind.)

“Fu- _uck_ ,” Amy moans, voice hitching when he hits deep. “Jonah, fuck. That's really, really good.”

“Mmm,” he grunts in return, not trusting himself to say more, all his focus on keeping the rhythm while trying not to come. Hearing his name, it turns out, is much worse than the swearing.

“Jo _nah_ ,” she whines again, like she's trying to kill him. Jonah squeezes his eyes shut and stops moving entirely — which, of course, only provokes another whine and a perilous rocking-back motion from Amy.

“Fuck, Ames.” He's trying to hold her still. “Need you to stop.”

“Do you?” she says tartly, but listens, thank God. Jonah digs his nails into her hips and looks up at the ceiling, gathering himself.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “Good now. You just gotta —”

“Jonah,” Amy interrupts, her voice suddenly serious. “You're waiting for me, right?”

His face, his body, everywhere's blushing. “Well, yeah, I thought that was the idea. _Try harder_ and all.”

“You know there's a way to speed this up.”

She said this exact same thing to him three days ago, when he was restocking canned goods. The solution then had involved a shopping cart, a stepladder, and an affectionate — or so Jonah told himself — smirk as she walked away.

For this, it's Amy shifting up from all fours, leaning both arms on the low headboard. Her forehead presses against the wall, dark hair falling over her shoulders. Jonah moves with her, still inside.

“Yeah, okay,” she says. His heart skitters at how breathless she sounds. “That's better.”

“Do you want me to...?” They're almost vertical now, so it's easy for him to slide a hand between her legs, parting the damp curls to touch her. Amy gasps, like she wasn't expecting it at all.

“ _Yes_ ,” she says as he starts to work slow, attentive circles over her clit. “Yes, yes.”

Gaining confidence, Jonah cups his other hand over her breast, pinching her nipple a little harder than he normally would. He's rewarded with another delicious gasp and Amy throwing her hips back. Clearly, she's happy for him to keep going.

And this is good, this _is_ better, because now he has something to do with his hands. She's still indecently wet, Jonah still feels the risk in every movement, but at least his fine motor skills are going to good use. He's circling her clit more firmly now, using two fingers instead of one, and from how she's responding, it seems to be working pretty goddamn well.

Soon Amy throws her head back, nearly on his shoulder, and he can smell the heady citrus of her shampoo. Impulsively, he bites her ear. Another risk that pays off — she grinds back into him, hard, and moans the loudest he's ever heard her.

Something about this makes Jonah think: _fuck it._

“Ames,” he whispers urgently. “I'm gonna do this now, okay?” Amy nods against him and that's all he needs, he's fucking her as hard and fast as he can without losing his place with his fingers, speeding up there too so she can really _feel_ it, desperate that he not be the only one. He can feel her getting slicker, if that's even possible, and Jesus, does that taut sensation mean what he thinks it means?

“Oh God, oh my God, _fuck,_ ” Amy pants, sounding almost panicked, the pitch of her voice rising, her limbs starting to shake. “Jonah, _Jonah_ , it's _happening_ —”

“Oh my God, Amy,” Jonah echoes roughly into her ear, and he absolutely cannot hold off one more second: he comes so deep, her whole body arching back into his, feeling equal parts pure physical bliss and intense pride that he's actually done it.

Amy's starts before his but finishes after, so Jonah takes the opportunity to nose aside the sweaty hair on her neck, pressing generous kisses just below her ear, carefully shifting his hands back to her hips. At last, he feels her heave a satisfied sigh and slump forward, taking him with her.

“Now _that_ ,” she finally says, her voice faint but very contented-sounding, “was a better angle.”

Jonah nods cautiously against her neck, wanting to agree, not wanting to seem too cocky.  Amy laughs as if she can tell he's conflicted, and cranes her neck back as far as she can to kiss him. Jonah leans in to meet her halfway. It's an awkward position, but neither of them cares.

“All right,” she says after a few seconds. “Get out of me so I can go clean up.”

“Oh, uh, right.” He pulls out, letting his hands fall away from her hips. Amy kisses him quick again before hopping down and ducking into what must be an adjoining bathroom, shutting the door behind her, light filtering through the cracks.

Jonah slides down the sheets in a daze, pulling up the covers just to do something tactile. He can't quite believe he's here. It seems impossible, like his dream — only a thousand times better, obviously, because he's not about to wake up.

The bathroom light goes off and Amy comes out. The moon's shining through the window and all her curves are perfectly silhouetted, like some sort of mythical fertility goddess, though Jonah's not dumb enough to voice that thought out loud. But nothing can keep his eyes off her, and when she slips back into bed, he pulls her close by the waist and kisses the shell of her ear.

“You're beautiful,” he murmurs. And apparently sex makes Amy soft, because instead of telling him to shut up or whatever, she nestles closer and releases a sweet little sigh.

Jonah is suddenly, completely steamrolled by how badly he wants to tell her _I love you_.  But besides not-dumb, he is also not insane, so he manages to hold it together for now.

“Hey,” he says quietly instead. “You wanna go to sleep?” He has no idea what time it is, but it's been a very long day. He can feel exhaustion seeping into his bones, and Amy's eyes look heavy-lidded from where her head rests on his shoulder.

A memory comes to him, not-quite out of nowhere: sitting next to Amy on the bathroom floor, her eyes unfocused from too much sambuca, and how he wanted her head on his shoulder more than anything else in the world. He didn't even want to kiss her, he remembers. Or rather, he _did_ , but not in that instant. It wasn't what she needed then, her throat working around a swallow, on the precipice of telling him what she really regretted in life.

Jonah realizes now that he never found out. Never even got Amy's head on his shoulder, because the next moment it was halfway down a garbage can as the sambuca took its revenge. But he never forgot how she looked then. So open, so heartbreakingly lovely, even in drunken disarray.

It makes it all the more incredible where they are now, one of her arms thrown carelessly across his chest, her left leg curled up over his hipbone. A year ago — hell, a week ago — Jonah would have sawed off a pinky toe to hold Amy's hand. Now he can touch her anywhere.

“Mmm,” she hums, eyes fully closed now, shifting even closer. Jonah never would have pegged Amy for a cuddler. He can't wait to find out what else he doesn't know.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, and allows his own eyes to close with hers.  For once in his life, it doesn't feel like he needs to say anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally gonna have more banter at the end, and I am _sorely_ tempted to write a super fluffy morning-after where they walk down the street to get everything bagels, but am gonna try to resist for now.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading!! Like all authors, I melt at kudos and comments, so please consider leaving one if you are so inclined ❤️ And let us all continue to pray for Simmosa endgame.


End file.
